The Call Home
by Arsacid
Summary: Brock Lesnar remembers a former colleague and friend in the darkest days of his UFC career, leading him to remember a life he left behind and ultimately making a career-altering decision. Dedicated to the Rabid Wolverine and the Toothless Aggression.


**THE CALL HOME**

* * *

 _ **So this is a Brock Lesnar fanfic where he's haunted by the memory of his friend Chris Benoit and how it leads him to make an important career choice.**_

 _ **Any constructive criticism is appreciated but if you start flaming me from promoting Benoit or start bashing him in reviews, you will end up being blocked and reported, so please desist from it.**_

 _ **I would like to clarify that I grieve the deaths of Nancy and Daniel Benoit, but am convinced that Chris Benoit's actions were by and large a combination of strain and head injuries triggering him into a fit that started the horrific chain of events that culminated in a double-murder and suicide over three days. I sincerely hope that the family has found peace in the afterlife and will be reunited in Heaven.**_

 ** _Rest in Peace Chris Benoit, Nancy Benoit & Daniel Benoit_**

* * *

 _One round, 4 minutes, 12 seconds..._

Through the haze of pain clouding my mind, those words rang clear in my head, mocking me, dogging me every step of the way from the Octagon back to the dressing room, as I'd walked away after receiving the worst defeat and beating of my professional MMA career. Cain Velasquez had kicked my ass six ways from Sunday and had emerged victorious to be crowned the new UFC Heavyweight Champion. A year after having almost died from diverticulitis and having conquered it to return to the arena, I'd thought I'd put my worst days behind me.

Clearly, I couldn't have been _**more**_ wrong.

As if the day couldn't get worse, I came across the last man who I'd wished to see that day. The Undertaker. Standing before me in all his 6' 10'', 309 lb glory was the Phenom himself, a man with whom I had a lot of history with, going back years before the Octagon, before MMA and before my failed stint at professional football. I'd felt a surge of anger and resentment as I recalled my past in the squared circle with such clarity as if I'd only left yesterday, something that surprised even me, given the state my head was in after Cardio Cain's abuse of it. The feud with the Deadman in the early years of the Ruthless Aggression, the matches and the backstage fights...I remembered it all. Why, just why had that bitter phase of my life come to haunt me on this night, of all nights?

It was then that Taker dropped the bomb, "You wanna do it?"

That was all it took to blow my notoriously short fuse. I stepped in his face and growled out, "Go fuck yourself" and stomped away.

I'd later wonder how that didn't escalate into something more heated or even physical, but I suppose it's because Taker, for all his faults and flaws, is a remarkably level-headed and self-disciplined man. However, that wasn't really one of his finer moments and it was all I could think about as I stumbled back into the darkness, away from the spotlight and the cheering crowd like a defeated gladiator who had just been spared from death. I tried to tell myself that it wasn't something I could've controlled; I made a last-minute call to change my gameplan, that I had fought my way back from an illness which would have otherwise punched my ticket to the big toka-party in the sky, that I'd needed more time to get back in the groove of things, but it was no use. I, Brock Lesnar, former NCAA Division I heavyweight wrestling champion, two-time NJCAA All-American, the 1998 NJCAA Heavyweight Champion, two-time NCAA All-American, two-time Big Ten Conference Champion, 2000 NCAA Heavyweight Champion and former UFC Heavyweight Champion had been dethroned and the one to witness it first-hand had been none other than the Undertaker.

We'd finally made it to the dressing room and I curtly asked the staff to steer clear of me until I came and sought them out myself, before slamming the door shut. I sank into a chair and let my tiredness and frustration consume me for once. But surprisingly, I found myself thinking about my pro-wrestling past more than my current disastrous bout and at the center of it all was the Undertaker. He had been the one to have gotten me over as the WWE Champion, in what would be my first and most epic title defense ever, propelling me to superstardom within the WWE and the world of sports entertainment as a whole. Of course, I knew that they had planned to have me compete with Taker again sometime down the road and lose to him and return the favour. But hey, the whole _wrasslin'_ life had taken the heart and soul out of me. I was doing nothing but spend month after month on the road, drifting from bottle to bottle, Vicodin to Vicodin, girl to girl...that wasn't living, that was surviving. Combined with the ridiculously bad booking they'd given me back then, I'd been disillusioned to the point of madness. It had become a struggle to even find a reason to get up the next day, let alone perform shows week after week in front of a sold-out crowd. It's not like I didn't like the success my career choice had brought me; hell, it made me a millionaire a sure lot faster than most of the other guys on the roster and moreover, I loved putting on a show for the fans but the monotony, the dreariness and the sheer physical and mental agony of it had gotten to me and I just couldn't take it anymore. But Vince fucking McMahon wasn't having it, guilt-tripping and bribing me every step of the way when I tried to get him to give me some time off to get my life back together. I mean I could only take it so many times being told that I was "tougher than all of that". But worse still was the Undertaker's attitude to this all, as if I was betraying the company and him, of all people.

Snarling, I'd pulled my mouthpiece out and hurled it at the wall and proceeded to kick my chair over. I grabbed a bottle off the table and threw it to the floor, making it burst and send it's contents flying all over the room. Betraying him? _Betraying him?!_ That motherfucker thought that because he was a darling of the Chairman of the Board himself and was always booked to come on top as an indestructable force of nature, what with his unbeaten Streak at Wrestlemania and his crazy B-grade horror film gimmick that it was easy for everyone else too? None of them could do what I had done by jumping the ship from WWE to UFC. Here, there were no scripts or bookings, no babyfaces or heels, no choreography or failsafes; this was a place for warriors, a place where nothing was predictable and everything was on the line, a place where there were winners and losers and losing made a hell lot of more difference than in the WWE. None of them could do what I had done; not the Rock, nor Kurt Angle, nor Stone Cold Steve Austin, Kane, the Big Show, not even Goldberg and _especially_ not the Undertaker, dammit. Hell, I don't care where he was coming from; if it was him against Velasquez tonight, he perhaps wouldn't have lasted two minutes in, even if he were in his prime and hadn't been at death's door almost 12 months ago. He couldn't get past his damned selfishness to see that the decisions I'd made were not to put him down but to make a path for myself; it was just too bad if that meant I never got to repay his favour to me.

In a fit of rage, I began pounding on the wall like a wounded bear that would tear any and everything in it's path to pieces, swearing at the top of my lungs the entire while. Before long though, I collapsed, back against the wall, my rage spent and my mind a little calmer. Unbidden, I remembered the one man who'd believed in me in those dark times, who supported my decisions and my dreams for the future. A passionate wrestler, a gifted athlete, a family man, the one who made his dreams come true in the very ring and on the very night I'd wrestled my last match for the company. He was the man who gave 17 years of his life to the sport, all to headline Wrestlemania and created history by securing the first victory by submission in the pay-per-view's history **AND** winning the big one, the World Heavyweight Championship. And it was the first time in years that I was thinking of Chris Benoit, the most talented technical wrestler to ever lace up a pair of boots. The man who'd been written off as a vanilla midget for the better part of his career, only for him to shatter every stereotype and glass ceiling to stand a titan among literal giants. The very night I'd wrestled what was probably the worst match of my pro-wrestling career and had flipped off both birds to my boss at the end of it all, Benoit had finally laid it all in that ring to make his dreams come true. It was a fairytale ending to the event, although it would forever be tinged by sadness given what would happen soon after.

For the first time that night, I found myself thinking about something and someone other than myself. I had left the business to be close to my family again, to end the separation and the longing that gripped me every time I was away from my daughter, spending week after week on the road and had finally got what I wanted. Benoit had loved his family too; his wife, his children and his old father, but unlike me, the only path for him was pro-wrestling. He had sacrificed so many years to it and had endured so much that it would've been impossible for him to try his hand out at any other profession. Moreover, he owed it to Eddie and he owed it to his late mentor, the great Stu Hart in whose dungeon he had trained before beginning what would be a storied career. It wasn't permanent for me but the ring was home for him and he'd never be able to live away from home. Perhaps that was what did him in in the end; his blood, sweat and tears had ultimately been what drowned him and his family in the space of three horrible days. That night, a father had lost his son, a boy had lost his father, the world had lost an icon and I...I had lost a friend. Yes, a friend. Despite what he'd done, I could never bring myself to hate him as I'd been in his shoes and had battled the demons that came along with the fame and money the profession brought. I knew what it was like to be depressed, to be hurt, to be drained mentally and emotionally and while I had the chance to walk away from it, Chris never saw the death trap closing. He became the deer in the headlights that no one saw falling and that was the damn shame of it all.

And just like that, I was in tears. I'm not ashamed to admit it; it was a tough night, what with my defeat, facing the Undertaker and then being taken on a feels train. Hey, I'm all for men being tough and not crybaby sissies but every once in a while, you have to let it go and that was exactly what I did there. I sobbed for all that was and all that could've been for what felt like an eternity, nothing held back. But eventually, the tears stopped flowing and true exhaustion set in. I hadn't even gotten myself properly tended to and that would be my first priority before getting back to the hotel and getting myself a good night's worth of sleep (well, perhaps a good day of it too). I wiped away the tears and snot, downed a swig of water from another bottle which had escaped my wrath before pouring a generous amount of it on my head and then opening the door to call for a medic...

* * *

Home had never felt so sweet to return to. It felt like returning from war when I was welcomed into Rena's loving arms again and to see my children again was a sight for sore eyes. This was where my heart would always be; this was where I belonged. But deep down inside, there was a twinge of sadness as I looked at my family, seeing the worry their smiling eyes masked. And I knew exactly what they were feeling and how it was hurting them.

The thought of this would keep me awake at night as I lay there with my wife in my arms, sleeping sounding for what I assumed was the first time in days. The beating I'd received had no doubt shaken her to the core and it was obvious that she feared that this time, it would not be OK, not so soon after I narrowly missed my date with the Reaper and my surgery. The truth be told, even I felt fearful going into the bout. Every punch and every kick that was thrown at my abdomen made me dread taking irreversible damage which would bring the diverticulitis back with a vengeance. Looking back, I realized I had taken an absolutely unnecessary risk that could've gone badly for me and left my family to deal with the consequences. Much like Chris's remaining family had...

The thought of that made me sick. I gently disengaged Rena's arms from around me (so deep asleep was she that she didn't stir, the poor soul) and I made my way out of my room, down the stairs and out of the door onto the porch where I sat down, looking out into the darkness that loomed over my ranch. I took in deep gulps of the night air to calm my troubled mind and slowly but surely, I regained control of my thoughts and my mind stilled. In a calmer vein, I recalled the times Chris would bring his children over to the arenas along with his wife. I remember being introduced to her and found her to be a very stoic and supportive woman from whatever limited interaction I had with her. Having once been a wrestler herself, she had taken the backseat in life to look after the home and children and became a support to her husband and his career instead, much like my Rena had done for me, moving away from all the fame and the glory after we married and blessing me with two boys in addition to being a mother to my daughter Mya. To know that she met such a horrible end at the hands of the man she loved so much...it's something I haven't been able to wrap my head around till this day.

Of course, thinking about my sons got me to thinking about Chris's two little boys. Having met them so many times and watching the family celebration in-ring after the conclusion of Wrestlemania XX, I can't help but feel pained, knowing it was perhaps the last time they were so happy together. The elder surviving son David was still a student as far as I knew and was under the watchful eye of Christopher Irvine or Chris Jericho, as he's more famously known. There are high expectations of him going into wrestling like his father did and redeeming the family name and should he ever do so, he has my fullest support for I want him to make his own mark and to make his father remembered for how he lived, not how he died. As far as the younger one is concerned...oh God, please give him a place with the purest of angels in Heaven for no child deserves to have gone through what he did. To lose your life to the very man who brought you into this world...It was his age to play with toys, to watch cartoons, to be surrounded with all the love his parents and the rest of his family to give him and instead, he was throttled in his sleep by his own father, a man who'd finally fallen prey to the demons he'd wrestled for so long.

Long before this had happened, Chris had been well-known as the man who put his family over himself and even his career itself. A gentle soul, he had always such a wonderful way with kids that many wrestlers who knew him well would leave their children with him and go away on tour themselves when required. How long had he been battling his woes alone and just how had it gone unnoticed? I knew that he was a quiet man, but the tons of wrestlers who were close to him from his WCW days would have surely noticed something was off? I do know Eddie's death affected him deeply to the point he was never the same again, but if someone had reached out, maybe it wouldn't have come to this. Maybe he and his family would still be alive and by now surely, he'd have been retired and in the Hall of Fame. Who would have inducted him, I wonder? Chavo? Jericho? It would have been such a great and defining moment, his name being immortalized in the same place as his best friend, only now he'd never even be mentioned by the company again, let alone be considered a nominee for the Hall of Fame.

Would I have turned out the same way if I hadn't left the company when I did? Would I too have become a raging demon who was being consumed from the inside until the day I snapped? Would I have returned home to Mya one day, only to...no, damn it, no! I couldn't afford to let myself fall prey to such thoughts. This was a cursed game that I'd never win and one that'd never end, driving me into the deepest, darkest depths of insanity. I had fixed my life now and nothing would ever prevent me from being the loving husband to my wife and a doting father to my children. I would continue with the sport I loved and would continue with my career on my terms. To hell with what Vince or Taker thought; I owed them NOTHING and if they felt otherwise, then too bad, they'd just have to deal with it themselves. The squared circled had gotten me over to where I was but it was a thing of the past and I'd moved on with my life and it was in their best interest to move on with theirs too. With that in mind and a smile on my face, I made my way back into the house and into the embrace of my still blissfully asleep wife...

* * *

Months later, I lay there in a hospital bed after undergoing a surgery that ended in 12 inches of my colon being removed. My worst fears had been realized; my diverticulitis had gone into relapse and my life was falling apart. I now knew there was no way in hell that I could continue with my MMA career risk free for an extended period of time. Sure, I could do an occasional bout here and there and while I may eventually be medically cleared, I would always have this fear at the back of my mind that a misplaced blow to the abdomen would bring back the disease. For the first time in 25 years, I truly saw darkness. This was my whole life; from college amateur wrestling to the Octagon, this was who I was. I was born to be a fighter and an athlete and I was being defeated in my toughest bout by my own body. How would I go on if the worst came to pass and I was declared medically unfit to ever compete professionally again? Would I just be confined to a life at home, forced to live off my past earnings, never to be able to perhaps even enjoy a challenging workout again, much less step into a ring? For what was the second time in a span of a few months, I broke down into tears again, only this time, they were tears of despair...

Of course, I made it back home again soon and for a time, I was inconsolable. It wasn't like the doctors had written me off from ever competing again, but deep down inside, I knew that this was a turning point and that there was really no going back to the old days again. My athlete's gut told me that if I were to submit myself to the same level of stress and strain like I underwent in the early days of my UFC career, I wouldn't be able to pull through a third time. That would be the last thing I wanted for myself and the family, so I decided to take my time making a decision about what would come next for me. I wanted to take this time for myself and to do with it what I truly wanted to do away from the world of contact sports, of fans and stardom and to live out the joys of the country life I so enjoyed and had isolated myself from society for and for a while, that's what I did. I hunted, fished, played softball with the boys and slowly got my act together. I needed to take the time to come to grips with myself, to self-reflect on my life and whether I wanted to continue the way I had done for years anymore. I mean it wasn't that I couldn't afford an early retirement; I'd made enough in the past ten years alone to make me be able to live comfortably till the end of my days and then some. But there was a hunger in me for more combat, one that could never be sated, no matter what the situation or odds and even more so, there was this call from the past I still felt towards the WWE, even after all these years and bad memories later. After all, no matter what beef I had with Vince or what resentment I felt towards the Undertaker, it was still this business which made me a household name and got me the money which I had to so desperately bank on at that point in life.

To be honest, I'd be a damned liar if I said I didn't wish that I could go back to wrestling at that point in time. It just felt like a dream right now to go back to a high paying job where all you had to do was simulate fights with other trained professionals who would either take or execute carefully planned and crafted finishes, with everyone getting paid a whopping big amount at the end. Given how over I'd been and how much I could draw, I could certainly get a contract again, although I'm sure that there would be a shitload of shifty clauses with as many obscure legal terms that could be pushed in so that there would be no repeat of the debacle of Wrestlemania XX again. In truth, this was what was holding me back; I didn't trust Vince any further than I could throw him (although truth be told, I _could_ hurl him a fair distance) and what made it worse was that the booking was worse than ever in the new PG era that had been ushered in the wake of Benoit's death...

And just like that, it came to Benoit again. In truth, much of what happened at WWE led back to him in some way or the other. I mean come to think of it, he was a fair bit like me. He'd always been quiet, minded his own business, was very private, devoted to family and friends and had a great work ethic, drawing us close despite us being poles apart in every way you could imagine. Heck, he'd gone and bought a house in an obscure, little known neighbourhood in the South, much like I had done in the Midwest. Not many people knew where he lived, even his closest friends, much the same as I had only a few people in the know about my residence. Which led me to looking up videos of his house on YouTube and videos of his old matches. Don't ask me why I did it; it's just that I was overcome by nostalgia and a need to witness the magic that he wove in the ring, something that has long been buried and nearly forgotten. It was on one of these binge-fests of matches and promos that I found _**it**_.

An interview of Benoit talking about me. Just a clip about him declaring that he was good friends with me even after me leaving, a time when almost everyone on the roster had broken off all ties and stigmatized me. He went on to say that not everyone was cut out for the life of travel and the difficulties that came with pro-wrestling, but that he wished me luck wherever I went whether it was the NFL or anywhere else. His final words were what stuck; he said that I'd eventually go back to wrestling because it was who I was; a wrestler. It was what I grew up doing and what made me and that it would eventually call me back.

I played that clip over and over for so many times that I lost count. Partly because I needed those words spoken to me by someone just to validate what I felt myself and partly because I wanted to hear his voice again. I'm ashamed to say that my contact with him had gradually eroded because of the uncertainties and the hurdles I was facing in my professional life at the time and I only thought about him when the news broke and it was too late. Now, this would be the closest thing I would get to hearing his voice ever again. Never again would I be meet up with him and enjoy a few beers, having a yarn about the hottest days of the Ruthless Aggression, or Toothless Aggression as he'd call it. I forced out a choked sob that oddly ended in a laugh. That tough son-of-a-bitch was a wolverine to boot like his gimmick and a damn funny one at that to turn around a scar he'd received in his career and coin a catchphrase out of it. But more importantly, his words had me convinced and had finally made the decision for me which I had, in all honesty, wanted to make since my loss to Velasquez. I wanted to return to the WWE at long last in what was a homecoming long delayed. But this time, I'd do things right. I'd make sure that I'd have a contract which would not only pay well, but also enable me to spend more time with my wife and kids. Somehow, I believe Chris would've approved. And I vowed above all to give it my best and dedicate it to his memory, even if the damn company wouldn't have him overtly referenced. Yes, I'd do it, the McMahons be damned. But before that, I'd return to UFC one last time for a champion's ending. I would fight for the championship gold and if I won it, I'd drop the belt and leave for good and if not, I'd leave with grace all the same.

I reached for the phone and dialed a number I knew all too well.

 _This one's for you, Chris._

A familiar voice answered and I spoke, "Hey, Paul? I've made my mind up. I want back in...and tell the Taker, _**I wanna do it!"**_


End file.
